An afternoon in my mind

Does my outfit for tomorrow need to be ironed? I'll have all morning tomorrow after the kids are at school. But I should probably just take it out and check it, just in case there's some sort of Unforseen Outfit Emergency that I'm going to have to deal with, because I am not going shopping for interview clothes the same day as the interview. Phew, clothes look good. Which shoes? These ones? No, they're scuffed. These? That's not quite the same black. (God, I envy men their one or two pair of dress shoes.) These? Too strappy. These? Too clunky. Hello, where did these come from? These are awesome! And new! And designer! And I don't even remember buying them. Yay me and my twelve pairs of black heels.

Does Chickadee's outfit for tomorrow need to be ironed? Nope, looking good. Shoes? Sneakers. Surely she'll agree to wear sneakers. What if she wants dress shoes? Well then she'll be sucking it up and wearing sneakers. Ha!

Where's her backpack? Did I put it... no, wait... maybe... okay, phew. Yanno, it might have been a good idea to empty it out at the end of kindergarten, in June, instead of just leaving all this crap in here for me to sort through, today. Oh well. Exactly how many rocks are in here, anyway? And fusion beads! A pox upon fusion beads! Maybe in first grade they won't do fusion beads, please sweet lord, I cannot take any more of the fusion bead proliferation. Save me. Chickadee is glued to the computer... quick check to verify... yes!... evil fusion beads being buried in the trash. Eleventy billion scraps of paper, likewise. All this other stuff... I'll put somewhere... later. A pile in the mudroom will work, for now. Backpack's empty!

Milk money... milk money... where's my pile of change.... Okay, gonna put this change in a ziploc in her lunchbag. Gonna put this change in a ziploc labelled "MILK MONEY" in her lunchbag. She's going to forget to buy her milk. Her bones will rot and she'll come home dehydrated. And yet, no one can say I didn't try. Cuz I did.

What is that smell? Oh, the cantelope is ripe. Yay! Gonna cut that up right now before I forget. I can put some in Chickadee's lunch; she'll like that. (I could put some in Monkey's lunch, too, if I was just interested in giving the cantelope a little vacation from home.) I love my melon baller. Okay, that's done.

Okay, put the pile of school stuff in Chickadee's backpack. Is everything here? Amazingly, yes. Wait, where's the name/bus tag? I know I had it. Where is it?? Oh, crap. It has holes punched in it for a string, but no string. I have to find some string. I don't have any string! Lessee... I have ribbon. Ribbon will work. I'll tie it. No, it's all slippery. It'll come untied. I'll glue it. I can't find the good glue. Hmmm. I'll glue it with Elmer's, and then put tape on top of the glue. Sure, why not. I've already spent an inordinate amount of time on this neon green name tag, why not turn it into a full-fledged craft! Oy. Okay, glue, tape, bus number written nice and big. Make sure it fits. ("Mama! I'm on the skillway, take that thing off me!") Put it with the backpack. I need to write a note saying she can get off the bus at daycare tomorrow. Okay. Then who do I give it to? I guess I just put it in her backpack. And resist the urge to sign it "Epstein's Mom."

"Chickadee! Remember to get off the bus at daycare, tomorrow! Will you remember?"

"Mom, you've told me that about two hundred times already."

Oh, fine. If I'm this tiresome at six just imagine how uncool I'm going to be when she's a teenager. Hmph.

I should get those sheets out of the dryer and fold them. Okay, back upstairs. Hey, I wonder if I still have any of that nice paper. I bet the ex forgot a box in the basement somewhere. I'll go look once the sheets are done.

Down to the basement (pausing on the way to give the 10 minute warning to my little 'puter addict). Empty the dehumidifier. I'll start with this stack of boxes. Geez there is a ton of crap down here. Most of it his. Aha! Like how this box of premium ivory vellum is his. Correction, was his. Possession is nine-tenths of the law and all that, and besides, he already has a job. I'll just put the paper by the printer for later.

I should probably find my briefcase. I have no idea where it is. Hmmm. I have this amazing briefcase my mom sent, but it's been in quarantine in the garage since receipt because (like everything that comes from her house) it reeks of smoke. I should check it out. Ick. It's better, but not fabulous. I'll try spraying the inside with Febreeze, and then setting it out in the sun for a while. And crossing my fingers. And hoping that the people who interview me are all smokers with no sense of smell.

Okay, time to fetch the boy child. Off we go. He's collected, and then we're headed down to the ex's, where I drop them for dinner. Back home again... this time to blissful silence.

Print resumes. Lay out clothes. Set alarms. Empty Monkey's lunch bag. Start to pack tomorrow's lunches. Go through the mail. Do dishes. Vacuum. Tidy up. Make phone calls. Keel over dead from exhaustive attention to all this minutiae. Wonder how in the world I think I'm going to be able to handle a full-time job and two kids and keep the house from falling down around our ears. Well, no matter, as tomorrow will be a little exercise in polish-me-up and reject-me-again, in all likelihood.

Thank goodness I've got my positive attitude to keep me going.